And even worse – I’m not sure you can rub more salt into an already salty wound, but if you can then that’s what happened – I had introduced her to Brad.
I could tell just by the look on her face there would be no coming back from this. She was radiant. Smiling, laughing... as if the rocky road of her illness over the last few years had been vigorously flattened out and then gently pushed aside to reveal a nice, new path ahead.
Which it had. Sort of.
You see, Brad is an exponent of sports massage. And he’s very good.
So good, in fact, he’s spent some time at the top of his profession treating soft tissue injuries for athletes of all shapes and sizes.
I got on to Brad completely by chance.
As you may recall, Mrs P has been suffering an ongoing illness for some time. Part of that is related to a fall and consequent back issue.
She’s turned over a lot of stones in the hope of finding a cure but sometimes has had to rest up, particularly when the pain gets very bad.
That’s what she was doing the other day when I literally bumped into an old sporting contact of mine. Back in the day, I was a sports writer for a big paper down the line.
We got chatting and I mentioned Mrs P’s situation amid my explanation of why she wasn’t with me. Within minutes, my still-well-connected mate had called up Brad and an appointment had been made.
Now, don’t get me wrong. Brad doesn’t profess to hold a silver-bullet solution in his magic hands, but his client list suggests he obviously knows his stuff.
Brad likes to show the partner what they can do to help if the need arises when he can’t be there.
Sadly, my efforts to massage away the pain haven’t been any good.
“Depressingly weak,” I think was the exact phrase My Beloved came up with as I tried as best I could to push away the pain in her lower back one time.
Anyway.
During the ride home after her first trip to ecstasy and back with Old Magic Hands, I asked Mrs P if she had enjoyed it.
Initially she had been a bit hesitant, believing too hard a massage could do more damage than good. But it seems Brad applied just the right amount of pressure. Obviously. Hence the noise she made.
She said he had literally found the required release point where countless others had searched in vain – presumably it was hiding under a freckle or something – and the muscle tightness around her injury had melted away.
The feeling of utter relief for the first time in years was impossible to describe, she said. I was left with the distinct impression she may not even have realised she’d made the sound in question.
Judging by the colour which had returned to her face, I’d say she definitely enjoyed her time on the massage table.
Actually, scrub that. I know for a fact she enjoyed the experience. That’s obviously why she immediately booked in a series of follow-up appointments.
Each time we went after that first appointment, it was the same. And on the way home, it was progressively all about Brad and how great he was. She wondered aloud what it would be like to have a sports massage therapist for a partner. I half expected to find him sitting in the back seat coming home with us each time we visited.
Now, while I may express concern about this possibility, in all honesty, I am not too concerned she will take off with Brad.
I mean, I have long lived with the possibility she will one day do a runner with Rod Stewart, and that hasn’t happened. Yet.
But I digress. Back to the other night and her announcement.
We’d just got back to home base and she’d gone inside and was getting ready for a shower.
Suddenly she let out a high-pitched shriek, beat a retreat to the far end of the caravan and pointed to the floor.
“Cockroach!!!” she yelled.
This was my cue to don my Superman suit and save the day. Which I did.
In one fluid, sweeping motion, I scooped the offending insect up into the paper towel I just happened to have handy for such occasions and took it outside, where I disposed of it.
